


Eye of the Storm

by 0Rocky41_7



Series: Guinevere Lavellan: This Shit is Weird [12]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, Flirting, Gen, Multiple Inquisitors (Dragon Age), Pre-Canon, The Conclave (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:47:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28926771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: Adaar was hired as security for Divine Justinia V's Divine Conclave, a desperate final effort to end the Mage-Templar War. On his way into town, he stumbles into a lone elf camping by the side of the road. Their conversation is something the Herald of Andraste will think on in the days to come.
Relationships: Male Adaar & Female Lavellan (Dragon Age)
Series: Guinevere Lavellan: This Shit is Weird [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1307045
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	Eye of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> [Original kink meme prompt: ](https://dragonage-kink.dreamwidth.org/93509.html?thread=365879109)
> 
> "Would anyone like to inflict a bit of bittersweet angst on the Inquisitor, right at the start of the game?  
> Not-yet-Inquisitor encounters another potential inquisitor at the Conclave (no race preference for either of them). They talk, they probably flirt, but it never gets any furher, as one of them dies in that explosion."
> 
> This was a lot of fun to work on since it gave me a chance to work with my characters outside of their relationship with the canon NPCs. It's also now got me thinking about an AU where they both survive and run into each other much later, and the not-inquisitor has a "holy shit, YOU'RE the Herald of Andraste!" moment.

The Divine Conclave was a long ways off from the Free Marches. It wasn’t that it never got cold there, but not the kind of icy, still cold pervasive in the mountains of Ferelden and Orlais. Guinevere was tempted to use a warming spell, but with humans and templars swarming about like ants on a hill, she decided it was better to be chilly, and simply huddled nearer to her fire. When Keeper Deshanna chose her to attend the Conclave, she knew it was her duty to the clan to go, but her stomach had been twisting in unease ever since she had met up with the streams of people headed in towards the Temple of Sacred Ashes. There were so many _shemlen_ , and almost no elves—even Grand Enchanter Fiona had sent a representative, rather than attend herself. Guinevere kept her hood up, and her head down, and prayed to Mythal that she was below the notice of the great names bumping elbows at this event.

Since the outbreak of the mage rebellion, Clan Lavellan had been even more secluded than usual. While they did occasionally venture into the towns mushroomed across the Free Marches, they had not much dared since the violence began. Too easy for them to get caught up in the skirmishing, especially with mages among them. Keeper Deshanna had given a reassuring speech to them about sending Guinevere to keep an eye on the Conclave, but she had confided privately in her first that she was deeply concerned with the potential outcomes.

“The longer this goes on, the more likely we are to suffer for it,” she warned. History had certainly proven that—when things got ugly for the humans, blame the elves. “Keep your ear to the ground, _da’len_ , and see what news you can bring us.”

The problem was, they were trapped. With Orlais, Ferelden, and the Free Marches all in chaos, their options for refuge were precious few. Venturing into the Tevinter Imperium was to guarantee that, sooner or later, they’d be captured and taken as slaves. Sailing to Par Vollen wasn’t possible unless they all planned to convert to the Qun, and convinced the Qunari to pay their passage. They could try to make it to Nevarra, but no one was ever happy to see the Dalish turn up on their doorstep. Ultimately, they were all praying the war would be over soon, and they wouldn’t have to flee anywhere.

While Guinevere contemplated the possible futures for her clan, a great wobbling shadow approached out of the dark, and her hand flew to the leather thong and halla pendant at her waist, which was the form she habitually stored her staff in when it needed to be concealed. Her heart sprang into her throat and without her clanmates, she felt she had been stripped naked as this giant advanced on her, but she did not dare actually draw her staff until she had no other choice.

“This seems like a lonely place to spend the night.” The shadow stopped at the edge of where her firelight flickered, and its voice was low and smooth, with a muddled accent she couldn’t place.

“It serves me well enough.” She meant to sound reassured, possibly as if she were hinting that she was _not_ alone, but her voice came out shrill and defensive. The towering figure took a step closer, and she saw the firelight thrown against great, curling horns.

“You know there’s an inn.” The Qunari jerked a thumb back in the direction of Haven. Guinevere said nothing, and the Qunari shuffled fully into view. Normally, elven night-vision would have given her an advantage, but the brightness of the fire dimmed her ability to see beyond its circle.

“I don’t mind this,” she murmured. _No rooms for knife-ears._

“Do you mind if I sit?” Guinevere’s brow furrowed, and the leaping in her chest had not quieted, but she gave a jerky nod, and he eased down cross-legged on the opposite side of the fire. “I take it that you’ve met the charming Mrs. Albright, then,” he remarked. Guinevere tipped her head. “She wasn’t keen to let us into her pub. And frankly, it’s generous to _call_ it a pub. Generous to call this a _village_.” When Guinevere said nothing, he went on, apparently unbothered by carrying on a one-sided conversation. “I suppose with everyone in town for the Conclave, she can afford to be picky about clientele. Personally, I won’t shed too many tears about moving out.”

“You’re here for the Conclave?” Every time she thought she was adjusting, the Qunari threw her another curveball.

“Security,” he said, flexing one tree-trunk arm with a lopsided grin. “What else are we good for, huh?”

“Shouldn’t you be guarding something, then?”

“I’m off-duty,” he said. “So for right now, I’m free as a maiden dancing in a field of flowers.” A smile twitched on Guinevere’s face, and the Qunari’s grin returned. “So I was headed to find a proper tavern, and then I saw a spirit of beauty sitting all alone by the side of the road and I thought to myself what a crime it would be to just walk by!”

In another circumstance, it might have been flattering, if _thick_ , but alone in the night, Guinevere stiffened, and she began to wrap the thong around her fingers.

“And when I saw your things,” he went on, “I thought maybe you could use a hand.”

“A hand?” Qunari were not _welcome_ in southern Thedas, but there was one thing they could bond with humans on: looking down on the elves. Guinevere was starting to wish she had gone deeper into the icy woods to make her camp. Dealing with a pack of wolves would be simpler than this.

“With Mrs. Albright,” the Qunari said. “See, she wasn’t keen to let us in, but she _did_.”

“…why?”

“Not many humans really jumping to pick a fight with a group of vashoth,” he said simply. “I just stared her down until she changed her tune. All I have to do to look intimidating to them is not smile.”

“You…want to help me get a room?” She could see the vashoth thought the wariness in her voice was unnecessary, but he also looked like he could split apart a tree stump with his bare hands, while she was a twig of an elf with no visible weapon. Maybe it wasn’t his lot to be wary of strangers, but it was hers.

“The only reason she got to bully you and not me is because I could tear her door of its hinges without breaking a sweat,” he said simply. “Doesn’t seem right, does it? Besides, there’s wolves out here. Not safe to be camping by yourself. I won’t ask where the rest of your clan is.”

_Don’t go off in the middle of the night with a mystery vashoth_ , Guinevere told herself. But it was cold, and there were wolves, and there were _shemlen_ everywhere, and a door with a lock would mean she might actually get some sleep.

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I’m sure you’d do the same.” Guinevere was sure she _wouldn’t_ —the Dalish didn’t make a habit of getting involved in other people’s business. It tended to bite them in the ass. With a quiet sigh, she gathered her things, and paused, standing over the fire. Normally she’d put it out with magic, but of course…she knew how Qunari were about magic, and wasn’t sure vashoth were different.

The vashoth solved the problem by kicking over the logs and smothering the fire by stepping on it.

“Besides, it’s freezing out here,” he complained as they made their way to the road. “Couldn’t they have held the Conclave on a _beach_ or something?” Guinevere huffed through her nose, and glanced up at him. With both of them upright, the top of her head didn’t quite reach the vashoth’s shoulder.

“They’re here for the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” she said. “I think Divine Justinia is trying to appeal to their sense of faith.”

“Or maybe she thinks they’ll be quicker to come to an agreement if they’re chomping at the bit to get out of this place.”

“You never said your name,” she said, after a few beats of a pause in which the primary sound was the quiet crunch of their feet against the path.

“You’re right, forgive the rudeness.” He stopped in the middle of the road and gave a half-bow. “Taarik, of the Valo-kas mercenary group, at your service, Lady Dalish.”

“Guinevere,” she said. “My name is Guinevere.” Taarik’s face lit up in a grin and they started towards the inn again.

“A beautiful name,” he said. “It reminds me of an Orlesian poem. Do you prefer Guinevere, or Gwen?”

“Either.” She looked up at the sky, with stars spilled across the blue-black dark like a spray of milk. Back near Tantervale, Keeper Deshanna and the rest were seeing the same stars, she thought

_“Bring me back something cool!”_ Corin had pleaded when she said goodbye. Yes—in the middle of everything else, maybe she would find time to pick up a shiny rock for her little brother, who was really too old to be asking for souvenirs.

. “Do you _often_ read Orlesian poetry?” she asked, unable to resist digging into such an odd thing. Taarik ducked his head a touch, a movement exaggerated by the swing of his horns.

“When I have time.” For once, he did not elaborate, and the silence of the night wrapped around them again. “So…what _is_ a Dalish elf doing at this thing?” he asked.

“Maybe I’m a representative,” she said, feeling vaguely irked by the implication she had no business being there.

“Oh yes, for the Templar Order, I’m sure.”

“For my _clan_ ,” she said, trying to frown rather than be amused by Taarik’s easy smile and relaxed tone. Was it always easy to joke, with shoulders as broad as a—well, as an ox? “For Clan Lavellan.” 

“I didn’t know the Dalish had an interest in the war.” But there seemed to be genuine interest in his voice, rather than an attempt to brush them off.

“Of course we do,” she said. “We’re displaced by this fighting as well. And the templars know there are apostates in our clans, even if the Chantry pretends otherwise. How long until they decide we’re too likely to sympathize with the mages? How long until the mages try to convince us to join them?” Humans didn’t often take _no_ from an elf very well. “We want to see an end to the chaos as well.”

“Collateral damage.” Taarik nodded, with more sympathy than his words immediately suggested. “There’s always somebody caught in the middle.”

“How did a Qunari end up doing security for the Divine Conclave?” Since Taarik was free with his questions, Guinevere saw no reason not to be the same.

“Vashoth,” he corrected. “And our whole company is vashoth. Sometimes it’s best to stick together, but I guess you elves know that, huh?” She couldn’t deny that—she’d missed having her fellows around her every minute she spent surrounded by humans. On the boat across the Waking Sea, she’d found a family of city elves to insert herself in, and apart from some initial unease, it was comforting to think other elves had her back. The children she had entertained with tales of Dalish legend and elven myth, and that had softened their parents up quite a bit, especially when she let them touch her vallaslin and ply her with questions about the nomadic lifestyle (“They’ve never met a Dalish before,” the mother had admitted to her). “Your clan really sent you alone?”

“If things go wrong, it will only be me who’s lost,” she said.

“That seems…harsh.” Guinevere shrugged.

“My keeper asked me to do the job. She said I could pick someone else to go with me, but I can manage. It’s my job, to take on jobs like this, for the rest of the clan. There’s no need for anyone else to risk themselves. And it is quite a long trip.”

“Are you like, her captain or something?”

“I’m first of the keeper,” she replied. “I will lead the clan when she’s gone to Falon’Din.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize you were a higher rank than me! Should I be calling you _ser_ , or is that just a human thing?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Just Gwen.” They arrived outside the inn, and Gwen had another moment of thinking she could—she _should_ —just walk away. Taarik turned as she hesitated, giving her a curious look. “I don’t want to cause a scene,” she said softly. She expected a blasé remark, but Taarik seemed to appreciate the apprehension in her face, and nodded.

“We’ll take care of it real quiet,” he promised. “Albright and I are acquainted, after all.” A little smile flashed across his face, and held the door open for her (he had to duck coming in himself). Without hesitation, he weaved around the tables, Guinevere tip-toing along in his wake, and rested an elbow on the bar, flashing an insouciant close-lipped smile at the dry-faced human behind it. “Hello again, Mrs. Albright,” he said in the chipper, easygoing sort of voice that suggested they’d never in all their lives had even the slightest disagreement.

Albright’s eyes narrowed, and she gave the most pinched expression Guinevere had ever seen, so that she suddenly had to suppress a laugh.

“What do you want?” Clearly she was not _quite_ willing to try to bar him from entry again.

“I know I said before I’m not looking for a room, but I’ve had a change of plans.” Albright’s nostrils flared, but Taarik went right on, gesturing back to Guinevere. “See, my friend here has no place to stay.” He didn’t mention her previous encounter with Albright, although Guinevere could see from the deepening of Albright’s frown that she recognized Guinevere from earlier (or she didn’t, and was simply so displeased to see another elf in her inn). Taarik just stared her down, smiling that blithe smile, with patiently feigned obliviousness to any tension.

“…no knife-ears, that’s policy.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Taarik said. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. See, I think you think I’m trying to get a room for a knife-ear. But I’m not. Just for my friend, Guinevere.” He motioned her forward, with a deep crease between her brows. Even if Albright _couldn’t_ see her ears, her vallaslin was stamped in purple ink across her face. “It’ll just be for a few days, should be no trouble at all.” He placed a meaty hand on Guinevere’s thin shoulder, and she watched Albright’s face, where she could _see_ the woman weighing the consequences of refusing Taarik again with her distaste for allowing an elf into her establishment.

“Once you’re settled,” Taarik said to Guinevere, glancing at the tables around them, “we can get something to eat. Best food around, here!” Fortunately, it was crowded enough that their conversation wasn’t drawing much attention. In the far corner, a red-headed dwarf laughed loudly and clutched her brunette companion closer, reaching for another drink, and the glint of the light off her fiery locks caught Gwen’s eye.

Looking like she was trying to grind her teeth to dust, Mrs. Albright dug a key out from below the bar and slammed it down on the surface.

“Furthest door on the left is empty.” It was truly a miracle she managed to get the words out, with how tightly her jaw was clenched. “It’s thirty coppers a night. Pay upfront.”

“Is it?” Taarik asked pleasantly. “I thought your going rate was fifteen.”

“Gone up for the Divine Conclave,” Albright sniffed. “Lots of folks trying to get a room.”

“It’s fine,” Guinevere said, brushing Taarik’s arm. “It’s fine.” If he went on arguing, she might change her mind about the room entirely, and having been inside for several minutes, Gwen was not eager to venture back out into the cold. “That’s her rate.”

The vashoth stared Albright down another moment or two, then removed himself from the bar, and Guinevere counted out thirty coppers—she would not have enough for a second night, but that was a problem to worry about later—and handed them over.

“It’s upstairs,” Taarik said, gesturing her up. He squeezed up the narrow stairs after her, walked her to her door, and then said, “Glad to be of service to a lady of Clan Lavellan.”

“Oh,” she replied, surprised that he seemed to be dismissing himself from her company.

“Even I can see when solitude might be preferred,” he said, a twinkle in his eye in acknowledgement of his interruption into her night. “Vashoth don’t usually get the welcome mat rolled out, and I know Dalish prefer to keep to themselves. I’m only grateful you gave me the chance to help. It’s been a pleasure to keep such fine company.”

“Is the food here really that good?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he said. “But it’s better than nothing.”

“You could stay and have a drink,” she suggested.

“Is that an _offer_ , Miss Guinevere?” Her face flushed at the insinuation.

“I only mean you should let me get you something, since you helped me get this room!” His smile bordered on a grin, but when he spoke, his tone was measured and warm.

“I _never_ say no to a drink from someone as charming and lovely as yourself.” Guinevere shook her head, unlocked the door to her room, and deposited her things inside a chamber which was so small as to possibly have been a mere afterthought to the design of the upstairs.

“You’re _awfully_ cheeky,” she told him sternly as she locked her door again.

“It’s part of the mercenary trade,” he answered. “But if it’s unwelcome…” Guinevere shook her head.

“…no, not yet.” The entertainment wasn’t amiss, and Taarik had a way of drawing attention that might keep eyes off _her_ , and she’d be grateful for that. He seemed trustworthy enough for the time being, and she had a feeling if she tried to sit by the fire without him, she was going to suddenly discover there was another policy against knife-ears in the pub.

“In that case, after you, Gwen,” he said, and they went back downstairs to await the commencement of the Divine Conclave.

And in the aftermath of the assault on the Conclave, the Herald would look back and consider the night’s brief companions, and their fates, and grieve, at least in small part, for those caught in the middle of something bigger than themselves, the collateral damage of an internecine conflict it seemed no one could stop.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to leave it ambiguous at the end as to who survives, but Gwen is my "canon" inquisitor. And yes, the red-headed dwarf in the pub is a shout-out to my own [Iona Cadash. ](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2111955)
> 
> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/641067041885995008/eye-of-the-storm) | [On Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/2010589)


End file.
